Innocent
by mockingbird39
Summary: It's been ten years since Liz Parker brought Max Evans back from the dead, evening the score between them. But now Max needs one more favor.
1. Default Chapter

** Title:  Innocent**

**Author:  Mockingbird39**

**Rating:  PG-13**

**Category:  Max/Liz Future Fic**

**Timeline:  Post-Chant Down ****Babylon******

**Summary:  It's been ten years since Liz Parker brought Max Evans back from the dead, evening the score between them.  But now Max needs one more favor.**

Prologue—_St. Petersburg_, ___Russia__, November 2012_

_~Liz~_

I've always loved St. Petersburg.  From the first time I walked down Nevskii Prospekt, I felt like I could be a new person here.  A person who wasn't bogged down by guilt and regret and memories.  Someone who didn't cry at night and dream about things that would never be.  I came here two years ago, fresh from eighteen months in Christian Dior's New York offices, clutching my passport, my Russian phrasebook, and my Harvard law degree—so new it hadn't even had time to get dusty on Fifth Avenue.  My boss in New York had apologized profusely when she asked me to take the placement in Russia.  The company had authorized her to offer all sorts of bonuses in addition to the relocation bonus, the one year of free housing, the personal expense account, and the hardship pay in case I resisted, but she barely had to start in on them.  I was more than ready to go somewhere new.  I wasn't exactly sure what I'd be doing in St. Petersburg, only that the contracts department there was a mess and desperately needed some new blood.  Three months after the first meeting with my boss, I left the United States.  I haven't been back since.

St. Petersburg is an relatively young city that was once the most Western in Russia.  Now it is old, gracious, and considered quaint in comparison to the glittering new regime in Moscow.  I've visited Moscow several times, and it is an amazing place.  I always feel energized there.  But I am always glad to return to Petersburg, with its gentle colors and faded elegance.  I live in the Fontanka district, in an apartment that is actually part of an eighteenth century palace.  It has parquet floors and a marble fireplace and is reached by a wide, curving staircase that I never descend without feeling like a princess.  My office is close by on Nevskii Prospekt, not far from the magnificent Church of the Spilled Blood, within walking distance of the Winter Palace complex.  My favorite French restaurant is close enough to visit during my lunch hour, as is the famed Pushkin Café, from which the poet left on his way to his last, fateful duel.  Once a month, a group of expatriate ("expat") women meet there for breakfast.  We've formed close friendships there, and together with out male counterparts, we form a tight group.  

I have a good life here.  I'm successful, challenged, and happy.  It's not what I imagined for myself back in high school, but it's still good.  My past in Roswell, New Mexico, is not something I care to think about very often.  So when I walked home one evening in late November and found Michael Guerin sitting outside my front door, I was shaken.  I'm ashamed to say I didn't give Michael a very nice welcome, considering that he had come halfway around the world to talk to me.

I remember he was sitting in the front lobby, talking to the doorman when I stepped into my building that evening.  It was already dark out—Petersburg nights come early in winter—and a light snow was falling.  The lobby was warm, and I quickly pulled off my hat before the snow on it had a chance to melt and soak my hair.  I called a greeting to the doorman and was almost to the staircase before I heard him.

"Liz."

Liz.  No one in Petersburg calls me Liz.  I turned slowly and found Michael there, holding a backpack and a parka.  His hair was long and messy, his jeans and sweater rumpled.  I found myself thinking how very American he looked.

"Michael," I said, dumbfounded.  "What are you doing here?"

He shrugged.  "I came to see you."

I was at a loss.  The only person apart from my parent that I'd kept in touch with from Roswell was Maria.  "Uh. . .it's great to see you," I told him, then I had a terrible thought.  "Is something—has something happened to—?"  I couldn't finish.

Michael shook his head.  "No, nothing like that."  He gave me a brief, awkward hug.  "You look good, Liz."

"Thanks," I said, searching his face.  For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what Michael was doing in Petersburg—unless it had to do with Max.  And if there was anything I'd worked hard to avoid, it was the thought, mention, and memory of Max Evans.

Maybe I'd better explain.

**Part One**

_Vermont__, March 2002_

_~Liz~_

"I can't believe I've got to stay here."  

Max and I were standing near the gates of the school.  It was three days after I'd woken up with the conviction that my soul mate was dead, one day after Clayton Wheeler had come to Vermont to kill me and rid himself of Max's presence, twelve hours after we'd taken a swan dive out a fifth story window into the gardener's shed, and about nine hours after I'd finally become secure enough in the knowledge that Max was alive to let myself sleep.  We'd slept in each other's arms that night, neither of us willing to be apart.  The next morning I'd gone to the dean's office to withdraw from school, intending to go home to Roswell that day.  But it wasn't that easy.  I'd need a parent's permission to leave Vermont, and neither of my parents were inclined to give it.  I begged and pleaded and cajoled my father for almost an hour (without telling him the actual                                                        _truth_, of course), and he finally agreed to let me come home, but only after I'd thought about it for two weeks.  I guess he thought I was just homesick and would get over it.  I couldn't blame him; in his place I probably would have thought the same thing.  But now I was about to be forced into saying goodbye to Max, less than a day after I'd finally gotten him back.  

"It's only for a little while," Max soothed, placing his hands on my shoulders.  He looked as loathe to do this as I felt, but he was resigned to it.  I was not.

"It's too long," I protested.  "I just got you back, Max.  I can't lose you yet."

"Lose me?" he repeated, frowning.  "Who said anything about losing me?"  He kissed me gently, and I could feel the energy surge between us.  "Let me tell you how this is going to go."  He took my hand and we began walking across the grounds.  "We're going to be apart for two weeks.  I'll call you every day—I promise.  Then you're going to get on a plane and come back to Roswell and I'm going to be waiting for you at the airport.  We're going to finish high school and then we're going to go to college somewhere together."

"Harvard?" I asked, though after that disastrous interview I wasn't sure they'd even consider me.

"Where ever you want to go," Max said, kissing my hand.  "I'd follow you to Cambridge—I'd follow you to Calcutta, if that's what you want."

"What about Roswell?" I asked, looking down.  "Don't you have to stay there?"

"Liz, after what's happened the past few days I'm wondering if it's safe for any of us to stay in Roswell."  He squeezed my fingers.  "Maybe trying to stay there was the wrong way to go to begin with."

I could agree with that.  Roswell may have been home, but at that moment I wasn't sure I wanted Max or anyone I loved to stay in that town.  It had been too dangerous for all of us.  "So we're leaving Roswell?" I asked.

"Only if it's together."  He leaned down and kissed me again.  "The next time either of us gets the urge to move across the country, we're going to be sitting side by side on that plane."

"Promise?"  

"I promise."  

You should never make promises that depend on things you can't control.  I learned that from Max Evans, years ago.  But I didn't know that then, and I held that promise tight for weeks and months afterward.  It comforted me in the night, and made me think everything would be okay again one day.  I remember the girl who believed that promise, and sometimes I feel sorry for her.  I wonder what she would have done on that late winter day in Vermont all those years ago if she could have known what was to come.  I think maybe it was better that she didn't know.

_St. Petersburg__, 2012_

_~Michael~_

Maxwell would kill me if he knew I was here.  I don't know everything that happened between him and Liz all those years ago, but I understand why he did it.  He wanted her to have a life that didn't involve waiting for him and planning her dreams around something that might never have happened.  If it had been me, I might have done the same thing.  I like to think so, anyway.  I'm not entirely sure I would have had the strength.  But I'm not as noble as Maxwell is, and I think that eleven years is enough penance for anyone to pay.  So three weeks ago I decided to ask Liz for help, and I wasn't going to ask Max's permission.  I would have come to St. Petersburg earlier, but it took me that long to find Liz.  Everyone who might have been able to tell me where she lived had moved away long ago.  Finally, I tracked down Maria. . .through a fan site on the Internet.  Oh, yeah—Maria's a singer now, in case you didn't know.  Big time record deal, huge place in L.A., and a tour schedule that makes her hell to track down.  She was in Canyon City, Arizona when I found her.  She pretended to be glad to see me, but there was no way she was giving up Liz's address without a good reason.  Finally I had to break down and tell her the truth.  She waited two days, then called me with an address I couldn't spell, much less pronounce.  But I booked a flight anyway, and roamed St. Petersburg until I found someone who could tell me what the address meant.  

From the looks of Liz's building, she's done all right for herself.  It's huge, old, and ornate, and it reeks of money.  So does Liz, come to think of it.  She walks like she's used to people paying attention to her—like she expects the world to make way for her.  And it apparently has.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.  

I glanced at the doorman, who spoke almost no English but was looking vastly interested in this, and decided I wasn't going to lay out my problems before an entire building full of rich people.  So I shrugged.  "I came to see you."

"Uh, it's great to see you," she stammered, and I could sense her thoughts whirling until they hit on something that made all the color drain from her face.  "Is something—has something happened to—?"

She couldn't finish, and suddenly the successful grown woman before me looked like the teenage girl who had come out of a fun house thirteen years ago to tell us that Max had vanished into a government van.  I couldn't stand that look in her eyes, and I ended up hugging her.  "No, nothing like that," I assured her, then leaned back to study her as her heartbeat returned to a normal speed.  It had been ten years since I'd seen Liz Parker, but I'd have recognized her anywhere.  Her hair was shorter—serious hair, I could imagine Maria saying—but it was just as dark and shiny as ever.  Her eyes seemed larger than I remembered, but it might have been the fact that she'd lost weight over the past decade and her features were sharper, more defined.  She was wearing a finely tailored coat made of black wool and trimmed in rich black fur, and a brown leather briefcase dangled from her black-gloved hand.  She was still beautiful—astonishingly beautiful, and now she carried with her a bit of mystery.  The kind of mystery that accompanies a broken heart.

"Liz, do you mind if we go upstairs?" I asked.  "I've got some things I need to talk to you about."

Something flickered across her face as I asked it, and it was only later that I realized it was fear.  She swallowed hard.  "Wouldn't. . .wouldn't you rather go to a restaurant or something?" she wanted to know.

I shook my head.  "No.  No, I'm really not hungry.  I've been all over the city today looking for you.  I just need to talk to you."

"Right."  All the breath seemed taken out of her.  "You. . .you must be tired.  Upstairs, then."  She turned and led the way up a massive marble staircase.

Liz's apartment was on the second floor, down a long hall lined with lush carpet and expensive wall paper.  "It's right down here," she said, walking quickly in her heeled boots.  She paused at the door, her hand on the knob.  "Are you sure you don't want to. . .um, go to a café or something?"

"No, this is fine," I assured her.  She seemed awfully nervous, considering I hadn't told her anything yet.  

"Okay."  She seemed to brace herself as she turned her key in the lock and opened the door.  "Come in, then."

The apartment was as fancy as the rest of the building.  The floors were inlaid, the foyer paneled in dark wood.  Liz called out to someone named Gruya, but the person who came into the foyer to greet her didn't look like a Gruya.  It was a tall man with dark hair and strong features, dressed in a business suit and expensive tie.  Liz looked alarmed when she saw him.

"Thierry," she said, quickly crossing to him.  She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.  "I didn't expect you tonight."

"I thought I would surprise you," he answered in a slight French accent.  "I didn't know you would have company."  I didn't like the way he looked me over—like if I was competition, he wasn't overly worried.

"It's a night for surprises," Liz said hurriedly.  "Thierry, this is an old friend of mine, Michael Guerin.  Michael, this is Thierry duPontiers.  Michael is in Petersburg. . .on business."

DuPontiers nodded and held out his hand.  "My pleasure," he said.  "Elizabeth rarely talks about her home.  Perhaps you can fill me in."

"I don't know how long I'm going to be here," I said, shaking his hand briefly.  He had a firm grip, but that didn't make him any more likable.

He looked from me to Liz, then nodded almost imperceptibly.  "Of course.  Then perhaps I should be on my way."  He kissed Liz's hand, then her cheek, and took an overcoat from a closet near the door.  

"You don't have to leave," Liz murmured.  

"Tomorrow, Elizabeth.  I will return tomorrow.  Tomorrow is the opera, yes?"

Liz nodded.  "Yes, _Yevgeny__ Onegin at the Mossugorskii."_

"Until tomorrow evening, then," he said.  "Let me just say good night to Sophie."  He turned to the living room and called out, "Sophie, come say good night, _cherie!"_

_Sophie?_  I couldn't imagine who Sophie could be until I heard clattering footsteps from the living room and a shrill voice calling in return.  "Thierry, where are you going?  I thought you were going to stay and read to me some more!"  

I looked over at Liz, whose face was white, and then to the door.  A child stood there, a little girl.  My first thought was that she seemed a miniature of Liz—dark hair, high cheekbones, slender frame that would one day be just voluptuous enough to haunt a man's dreams.  Then I noticed her eyes.  They were a deep amber, flecked with gold that glimmered in the flickering light from the foyer chandelier.  I knew those eyes.  I had known them in two lifetimes.  They were Max's eyes.

The little girl looked at the three of us standing in the foyer with unabashed childish curiosity, then walked straight to Liz.  "Mommy!" she exclaimed happily, wrapping her arms around Liz's waist.  "You're home."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

_~Liz~_

Michael knew.  The minute he looked at Sophie, I knew he would see what I see every day of my life.  Sophie is nothing if not her father's daughter.  And her father, of course, is the only man I've ever loved.  Max Evans.

Michael and I stood silently as Thierry and Sophie said their goodbyes.  She kissed his cheek and he twirled her around, promising to bring her another book the next time he came.  Sophie thrives in Thierry's attention, and he gives it freely.  He should have a house full of children to shower attention on, but this world is not always fair in what it bestows.  Sophie should have a father who loves her without the hesitation that always comes in relationships that might end at any time.  Even Thierry, who loves her dearly, has to keep a certain distance in their relationship because at any moment one of us could decide this is going nowhere and leave the other forever.  No use getting attached to someone who might not always be there.

"Tomorrow evening, near the cloakroom?" Thierry asked me, and I was jolted out of my thoughts.

"Yes—better be early.  Marcus likes to get settled before the orchestra warms up."  The next night we were taking a colleague of mine to the opera.  

"Of course, _ma cherie_," Thierry said.  He gave me a brief kiss, nodded at Michael, and left the apartment.  The moment the door shut, I wished he had stayed.

"Mommy, who's that?"

I looked down to see Sophie's eyes on Michael.  He was still staring at her, dumbstruck.  I smoothed my daughter's hair with one hand, then shrugged out of my coat.  "This is my friend Mr. Guerin," I told her.  I don't know why I called him that.  Maybe I was trying to distance myself and my daughter from him and what he represented.

But Michael wasn't about to stand for that.  He knelt in front of Sophie and held out his hand.  "I'm Michael," he said.  "I knew your mommy a long time ago.  What's your name?"

"Sophie," she answered solemnly, shaking his hand.  "Are you from New Mexico?"

"Yes, I am.  Where are you from?"

She shrugged, and it broke my heart.  Sophie and I have moved around a lot in the past few years.  For the first seven years of her life we lived in Boston while I attended college and law school, but then we moved to New York City when I got the job at Christian Dior.  We were there less than two years before I packed her up and moved her to a country where we didn't know a single person or even the language.  She seems happy here, but I can't help thinking what she's missing.  When I was her age, I was Liz Parker from Roswell, New Mexico.  My daughter is Sophie Parker from. . .from where?  _God, she deserves better than that, I thought.  I took a deep breath and cleared my throat.  "Sophie, baby, is Gruya here?  Thierry didn't send her home, did he?"_

She shook her head.  "No.  She's in the kitchen making pierozhki."

"I need to talk to Mr.—I mean Michael.  Do you think you could go help Gruya?  Ask her to make us some tea and bring it to the library."

Sophie nodded again.  "Will you read to me before bed?"

I smiled.  Bedtime stories had been a ritual for the two of us since the day Sophie was born.  "I promise."  I touched her cheek, praying her life and mine weren't about to spin out of control.  

"Fairy tales?" she persisted.  "In Russian?"

"Your Russian is better than mine," I said with a smile.  "Why don't you read them to me?"

"It's better when you read," she told me.

I bent and kissed the top of her head.  "Okay, then.  Run and help Gruya."  She ran for the kitchen, and I waited until she was out of earshot before I turned to Michael again.

His eyes were accusing.  "Does Max know?" he demanded.

I shook my head, my throat tight.  "No, Max doesn't know.  Are you going to tell him?"

Michael didn't answer.  "This is why you never came back to Roswell," he said.

"This is one reason," I answered honestly.

"I can't believe this," Michael said, shaking his head.

"I know it must be a shock," I said, hanging up my coat.  I reached for Michael's bulky parka and hung it up, too.  "I'm sorry you had to find out like that."

"How could you do it, Liz?"

It wasn't anger in his voice—that I was prepared for.  I wasn't braced for the sadness in Michael's tone, or the disappointment in his eyes.  In an instant I was taken back ten years and I was once again the frightened teenage girl I'd been the summer after I graduated from high school.  I felt tears sting my eyes.  "It wasn't my choice, Michael," I whispered.  "It wasn't my choice at all."

_Roswell__, __New Mexico__, March 2002_

_~Michael~_

Everything hit the fan about a week after Max came back from Vermont.  Between Max coming back from the dead and Isabel recovering from that gunshot wound, we were all so relieved that we weren't prepared for another crisis.  Maybe that was our mistake—not paying enough attention.  Or maybe it was something else, something that we should have fixed earlier.  Or maybe it wasn't our mistake at all.  I've never quite been able to believe that last one.

Max was sitting on my front steps talking to Liz on a cell phone when we heard the news.  He and Liz had talked several times a day ever since he'd come back from Vermont, and he was so happy that I couldn't begrudge him the goofy smiles and murmured conversations that seemed to take up half his time.  I remember it was a beautiful day and I was outside working on my bike when Maria drove up, tires screeching on the pavement.  She jumped out of the car yelling.

"Aren't you guys watching the news?" she demanded, heading up the walkway.

"Does it look like we're watching the news?" I asked, shaking my head.  I wiped my hands on a rag and tossed my ratchet back into my tool box.  Max barely looked up from his phone call.  That was no surprise; when he was talking to Liz, Max was in another world.

"Well, you should be," Maria retorted, walking into my house and turning on the television.  She found CNN quickly and pointed at the screen.

"—body of Hollywood producer Cal Langley has been found in his Hollywood mansion.  Investigators estimate that Langley has been dead several days.  The cause of death has not been determined."

_Oh, man_.  I went to the screen door and pushed it open.  "Maxwell, you better get in here."  He looked up, clearly not happy that I'd interrupted his phone call.

"Michael, what's the problem?  I'm on the phone here."

"I can see that, but this is important."  I held the door open and he reluctantly came inside, but did not get off the phone.  

"Nothing, Liz," I heard him say.  "Just something on T.V."  He stood beside the sofa, watching half-heartedly, until a picture of Langley flashed on the screen.  Then he straightened, his eyes glued to the television.

"Langley was best known for his highly successful action films," the announcer continued.  "There is no word on what will be the fate of his current film, a high-budget military thriller that is less than half complete."

Max's face had gone pale beneath his tan.  "Liz, Langley's dead," he said in a stunned voice.  He paused, then repeated, "Langley—the other protector.  The one in L.A."

"This is impossible," Maria said, her voice shrill.  "Langley shouldn't have a dead body.  He should be dust—just like Nacedo."

_Just like Max_, I couldn't help thinking, but I didn't voice it.  Instead I turned to Max.  "What do we do now?" I asked.

Max was clutching the phone like some sort of lifeline.  "I don't know," he said.  "I don't know."

_~Liz~_

I knew something was wrong that first day.  It had been three days since Cal Langley's body—or at least the body everyone assumed belonged to Cal Langley—was found, and the press was all over the story.  They had canonized Langley in the time since his death, calling him a "visionary" who was "years ahead of his time."  Funny how they'd never realized that before he died.  

Max had called me every day since we parted in Vermont.  We talked for hours in those few days, telling each other anything that popped into our heads.  Most days we talked more than once, calling back when we remembered something we couldn't wait until the next day to share.  But on that day he hadn't called once.  Finally, at seven that night, someone knocked on my door to tell me I had a phone call.  Relieved, I went down the hall and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Liz?  It's Maria."

My heart sank.  "Oh, hi, Maria."

"Liz," she said slowly, "I've got some bad news."

I gripped the phone so tightly my hand ached.  "Tell me."

"Max has been arrested for Cal Langley's murder."

The world started to spin, but I wasn't going to faint.  "That's impossible.  Max would never do anything like that."

"I know—and we know it wasn't even Langley they found.  But the police have witnesses saying he and Max had big argument when Max was in L.A., and Isabel said Jesse told her they found Max's fingerprints in the house."

"Well, of course they did—he was in the house last fall," I protested.

"No, recent ones.  And they were all around the body."  Maria sounded on the verge of hysterics, but I felt strangely light, like I was watching someone else's drama.

"That's impossible.  Max was here in Vermont with me, and then back in Roswell with all of you.  He's got an alibi."

"Max can't tell anyone he was in Vermont, Liz," Maria said.  "No one will believe him anyway—he's got no plane ticket, nothing."

"I'll tell them," I said.  "And you will, too, right?"

"Of course I will, Liz, but that's only our word against fingerprints and witnesses in L.A."  Maria sighed.  "And I don't know how much your word will be worth, considering the two of you held up a convenience store last summer."

"We did not hold up—"  I stopped, refusing to get into that argument again.  "I'm coming home," I told Maria.  "I'm going to go pack and come home."

"They're taking Max to L.A.," Maria said.  

"When?"  My hands had started to shake.  Max was going to be in jail in L.A.  My Max, in prison for something he didn't do.

"I don't know.  Soon."

"Okay.  Then I'm coming home tomorrow.  Will you pick me up at the airport?"  My mind was already cataloging the things I'd have to do in order to get home as quickly as possible.  _Call the airline first, then a cab. . ._

"Liz, what about your parents?"

Damn.  There was no way they'd let me come home for this.  In fact, they'd probably want the dean to set guards outside my door to make sure I didn't come home.  But I wasn't going to let Max face this by himself.  "I'll tell them after I've seen Max," I said.  "Don't tell anyone I'm coming—not even Michael and Isabel, okay?"

"Okay, but are you sure this is the best thing to do?"  She sounded doubtful.

"Maria, I have to see him," I said simply.  It was all I could think of—that tug on my heart that wouldn't be satisfied until I was in Max's arms again.  

"I understand."  Maria took a deep breath.  "Call me with your flight information, okay?"

"I will.  Thanks, Maria."  I hung up the phone and stood there leaning against the wall.  My world had fallen apart again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

_St. Petersburg__, 2012_

_~Michael~_

Liz's library was full of pictures of her daughter.  Max's daughter.  Every time I thought about it, I felt a little sick.  Max had a child, a beautiful daughter who was a perfect mixture of him and Liz, and he didn't even know it.  Liz, the person he'd trusted above all others, had kept it from him for all these years.  

Not even Tess had done that.

"Michael, I know how this must look," Liz said, closing the door behind us.  She crossed to a large desk and leaned on it, looking down at her expensive shoes.  

I looked around at the room we were in.  It was pretty big, and looked bigger because of the high ceilings.  There were books everywhere, a central fireplace, and wide leather furniture.  Pictures of Sophie were everywhere—on the mantel, on Liz's desk, on the bookshelves.  Sophie as an infant, dressed in pink ruffles.  A few years later sitting on a pony.  Sophie and Liz wearing balloon hats at some kind of street fair.  Maria and Sophie hugging each other tightly in front of a Christmas tree, grins stretching across both their faces.  That last one came as a surprise.

"Maria knows?" I asked, aware my voice sounded harsh.

Liz nodded.  "Maria is Sophie's godmother."

Stupid question.  Of course Maria knew.  That was why she'd been so reluctant to give me Liz's address.  They were quite a pair, both of them protecting Sophie from Max and me.  "Isabel?" I asked, thinking that it wasn't completely impossible.

"No," Liz said quietly.

"Kyle?"

"No."

Without realizing it, I'd begun to pace the room, going from the fireplace to the desk and back again, over and over.  "This would kill Max," I muttered, and Liz flinched.

"Can you think of a way it wouldn't have?" she snapped.

I stopped pacing.  "This isn't fair, Liz," I said.  "You can't keep this from him.  You have no right—"

"I am her mother," Liz interrupted.  "I have every right to protect my daughter."

"From her own father?" I demanded.

"From her father, from the FBI and alien hit men that are always after him, from her half brother and his homicidal bitch of a mother—and from whatever else might hurt her," Liz spat furiously.  I had never seen her so angry.  "If you're going to stand here and question the way I parent my child, you can go right back to Roswell."

"Max would never do anything to put her in danger," I ground out, refusing to admit that much of what she said made a lot of sense.

"Being his daughter puts her in danger," she corrected.

"Hiding her from him doesn't make that threat go away," I told her.  "It might even make it worse.  How are we supposed to protect her if—"

"Protect her?" Liz repeated.  She slammed a fist down on the desk.  "How the hell is Max supposed to protect her from prison?"

_Roswell__, 2002_

_~Liz~_

I was at the jail by noon the day after Max's arrest.  I'd left school practically in the middle of the night, taken a plane to Dallas, slept in the airport while I waited for my connecting flight, and landed in Roswell at eleven the next morning.  Maria picked me up, mercifully didn't ask too many questions, and drove me straight to the county lock-up, where Max was being held awaiting an extradition hearing.  There were reporters everywhere, and I wished I knew how to make my powers act on command.  I'd have blasted the lot of them back to L.A. without a second thought.  But as it was, I had to elbow my way through the crowd.  I probably caused a few injuries, but I didn't give a damn.  I just wanted to get through.

Hanson noticed the commotion and was waiting for me at the door.  "I can guess why you're here," he said grimly.

There was no use denying it.  "I need to see Max."

His eyes were sympathetic, but he didn't move to let me in.  "What do your parents say?" he wanted to know.

"Nothing yet," I said honestly.

He thought for a second, then sighed.  "Well, at least I'm not breaking any direct orders," he murmured, then moved aside to let me pass.

Max was in a holding cell much like the one Alex and I had spent the night in after getting caught at the warehouse party. . .god, that was a lifetime ago.  He was sitting on the cot, his head in his hands, when I ran down the corridor.  Hanson trailed me by a few steps.

"Max!" I cried, still out of breath from my fight with the crowd of reporters.  He was on his feet in an instant, reaching for me through the bars.  

"Liz, how did you get here so fast?" he asked.  "Are you okay?"

"I flew all night," I babbled.  "I had to get here before they moved you to L.A."  I was touching him—his face, his hands, his hair—trying to reassure myself that he was, for the time being, okay.

"Step back a little, Liz," Hanson said, and I turned to protest, but he had his keys in his hand.  He unlocked the cells and started to slide the bars back.  "I'm gonna have to call your parents," he said regretfully, "but you'll have a little while before they can get here."

"Please don't call them," I begged.  "Not yet."

He shook his head.  "Liz, you know I have to."  But then he pushed the door open and I found myself in Max's arms.  He held me tightly, cradling me against his chest.  I could hear his heart beating fast and I thought I'd never heard anything more beautiful.

"Are you okay?" I asked, my voice muffled against his chest.

"I'm fine," he said, stroking my hair.  "Liz, I had nothing to do with Langley's death.  That can't be Langley anyway—"

"I know, Max," I interrupted.  "I know you'd never do anything like that."  I leaned back to look at him.  "I know you're innocent."

He looked relieved.  "They have fingerprints," he said, shaking his head.  "They even have witnesses saying that I've been to his house three times since last fall."

"Max, they're lying.  Someone will have to come forward and tell the truth."  I don't think he believed me, even then.  But he wasn't about to tell me that.

"I can't believe you're here," he said, running his fingers through my hair.  His eyes roamed over my face hungrily.  "I thought you'd have to stay at school."

I tried to smile.  "Well, I didn't actually ask permission," I said.  "I just got on a plane last night."

His eyes got a little worried.  "Liz, your parents are going to be furious."

"I know."  I looked down.  "But they wouldn't have understood, and I couldn't stand being so far away from you."

"They're going to take me to L.A.," he said, troubled.  "You can't come there."

"I will," I insisted.  "You need me. . .don't you?"

"Of course I do," he said quickly.  "I need you so much.  But I don't want you to get in trouble—or put you in danger.  If Langley set this up to frame me, he's probably watching.  And he isn't shy about killing anyone who gets in his way."

"Max, I'm not going to sit back and let you face this alone!" I protested.  This wasn't the first time he'd tried to shut me out when things got bad.  But this time I wasn't going to take it.  "I'm going to be there for you—I'm not leaving."

"Liz, I'm not alone," he said.  "I've got you, even if you're here in Roswell, or in Vermont, or where ever you are."

"But I need to be with you," I said tearfully.

"We'll be together, Liz," he told me firmly.  "The truth will come out and we'll be together.  I promise."  He bent his head and placed gentle kisses on my upper lip.  "Just try and get rid of me then."

"I love you," I said desperately, closing my eyes.

"I know," he whispered.  "I love you, too."  He kissed me gently, and I felt the rest of the world slip away.  For that moment, at least, it was enough.

_St. Petersburg__, 2012_

I stared at Michael, anger making my heart pound.  "Well?" I demanded.  "Got any ideas?"

"Max isn't the only one who would protect her," Michael said, his voice low.  "Do you think any one of us wouldn't give our lives to save her if it came to that?"

"It isn't going to come to that," I told him.  "Sophie is fine here—she's safe."

"What if one day she isn't?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but at that moment there was a light tap on the door and my housekeeper, Gruya, entered.  She carried a tray loaded with tea things and a plate of fresh-baked plushki.  Sophie was behind her, carrying a plate of bread and cheese.  She cast a sheepish glance in my direction and I knew she had talked Gruya into letting her help so that she could get another look at Michael.  I couldn't blame her for her curiosity; to Sophie, it must have sometimes seemed like I had no past.  

"Put it there, Gruya," I said in Russian, and the older woman looked at me in surprise.  She speaks some English, and usually when we have foreign guests I make an effort not to speak Russian and leave them feeling isolated.  "You, too, Sophie."

Sophie seemed intrigued.  "Where, Mama?" she asked in Russian, dragging it out.  "Here on the table?"

I sighed.  "That's fine," I told her.  She walked the long way around the couches, eyeing Michael the whole time, and set the plate down on the coffee table with great care.  My daughter, the drama queen.  She learned that from Maria, I'm sure.

"Aren't you hungry?" Michael asked her, and she hesitated a moment before switching to English.

"I already had my dinner," she said shyly.

"Are you sure you don't want. . .one of those?" Michael asked, pointing to the steaming plate of pierozhki.  "I bet they're good—what are they?  Some kind of donut?"

Sophie laughed.  "No, they're pierozhki.  They have meat and cabbage inside."

"Meat and cabbage?" Michael repeated, frowning.  "Yeah, that doesn't sound like it would make a good donut."

"They're really good," Sophie assured him.  "Try one."

"I think I will," he said with a smile.

Watching the two of them together took a lot of the wind out of my sails.  Michael looked positively enthralled with her, and I reminded myself that he probably thought of her as something like his niece.  He and Max had been like brothers—probably still were.  By keeping Sophie from Max, I'd also kept her from Michael, and he was clearly feeling that betrayal acutely.  My guilt flared even higher when I realized that, aside from Max and Isabel, Sophie was probably the only person in the world he would consider to be family.  I let them talk for a few minutes while Gruya bustled about, setting up the tea things, then I put my hand on Sophie's hair.  

"Is your homework finished, Sophie?" I asked her.

She wrinkled her nose.  "Almost.  I only have to finish my spelling words."

"I think you better go finish, then," I told her gently.  "Then pack your bag and make sure everything is ready for school in the morning."

Reluctantly, she headed for the door.  "Okay," she said, then turned to Michael.  "G'night."

"Good night, Sophie," Michael called after her.  "It was nice to meet you."

When she was gone, Michael and I stared at each other for a long time.

"She's beautiful," he said finally.

I smiled.  "Yes, she is."

He shook his head, his eyes sad.  "I would have helped you, Liz."

I nodded.  "I know, Michael."

"I'd still help you. . .if you want me to."

I was at a loss.  In the space of twenty minutes Michael had dragged me back into a past I'd tried hard to forget.  "Thanks," I said finally.  "It's nice to know there's someone I can call."

_But I won't._

The unspoken words hung thickly in the air between us as I walked over to the windows and parted the curtains.  Outside the darkness hung like a purple velvet shroud over the city.  I stood there for a long moment, taking in the silence, staring out over the old canal that ran down the center of the street.  I heard Michael behind me, pouring tea into the china cups.  After a moment, he stepped close to me and placed a cup of tea in my hand.

"Here," he said simply.

"Thank you."  I sipped my tea, still looking out at the night.  

"I'm sorry, Liz," he told me softly.  "I didn't mean to. . .I'm just in shock, you know?"

"I know."  I relaxed a little.  "I'm sorry you had to find out like that."

"It's okay." 

We stood there in silence for a moment, then I slowly turned to face him.  "Michael," I began, "why did you come to Petersburg?"  

He took a small sip of his tea.  "I came to ask for your help."

That warmed me to the core.  Michael and I had been out of touch for over a decade, but he still felt secure enough in our bond to ask for my help.  I had too few relationships like that.  I smiled slightly.  "Michael, all you have to do is ask.  I'll help you however I can."

He looked gratified.  "Thanks, Liz," he said, "but I'm not the one who needs your help right now."

I suddenly became very aware of the silence in the room, broken only by the steady tick of the clock.  I licked my lips.  "Who, then?" I asked.

Michael took a deep breath.  "Max," he said.  "Max needs your help."


	4. InnocentChapter 4

**Part Four**

_Roswell__, 2002_

_~Michael~_

The summer of Max's trial was a nightmare.  He was moved to Los Angeles in the end of March, and charged with murder in the death of Cal Langley.  By the time he was arraigned, indicted, and assigned a trial date, it was early April.  Liz was back in Vermont—under extreme protest.  She was no longer speaking to either of her parents.  They'd sent her back the week after she arrived unannounced, and hadn't listened to her begging, pleading, or threats.  It was only when her father suggested that there were boarding schools farther from Roswell than Vermont that Liz finally went back to finish out the school year.  Mr. Parker had promised that she could come back home for the summer, and had agreed to consider letting her visit Max in Los Angeles if she didn't give them any more problems before graduation.

But Max and Liz were both feeling the separation, and the first time I got to visit Max in Los Angeles I could see it.  Max was thinner, and pale, and the first thing he asked was about Liz.

"Is she back home yet?" he demanded.

His parents had come through for their delinquent son and hired him a good criminal defense attorney, and then bailed him out of jail.  He had to stay in L.A., though, so I'd driven out to meet him in the residential hotel where they were staying.  

I shook my head.  "No, she's got three more weeks."

"Damn."  He ran his fingers through his hair.  "Have you talked to her?"

"No, but Maria has.  She says she's holding on."  I looked at him curiously.  "Why haven't you called her?"

"The school won't take my calls.  Orders from Liz's dad, I guess."  He looked miserable.  "I thought maybe if she was home I could get through to her cell phone.  She's out of range in Vermont."

"She writes to you, doesn't she?"

Max nodded, a faint smile crossing his face.  "Every day."

"Then you know she's still in Vermont," I reminded.

"Yeah."  He scowled.  "I was just hoping. . ."

He didn't have to explain.  I sat back in the plush hotel chair and looked at him.  "Did you figure anything out about Langley?"

Max shook his head.  "From the documents they've turned over to my defense team, it looks like the body they found was strangled in Langley's house around the time I got back from Vermont.  Who ever did it used a telephone cord."

"But it's not Langley," I said.

"No, it can't be."  He looked thoughtful.  "He's a shape shifter—I don't think a telephone cord could do it.  You remember what it took to kill Nacedo."

"The Skins."

"Right.  So what we've got to do is find Langley.  One of the things the prosecution has going for it is that I had a pretty public argument with Langley last fall.  If the body they found isn't his, that takes away their motive."

"Who identified the body?" I asked, realizing that this was a little much for Langley to have pulled off by himself.  He had to have involved someone else.

"His doctor," Max answered.  "Some guy named Allward."

"Have you checked him out?"

Max snorted.  "Are you kidding?  I've got people following me everywhere I go.  There's no way I could go check him out now."

"I'll do it, then."  I grabbed a pen and paper from the coffee table.  "His name's Allward?  Do you have an address?"

Max got up and went to a file box full of papers and notebooks.  He rummaged in it for a moment, then came up with a thick report.  "Here," he said.  "It's the autopsy report.  Everything's in there."

"I'll check him out," I told Max.  "I'll go by his office on my way back to Roswell."

"Be careful.  He's got to be connected to Cal in some way.  That makes him dangerous."

"Then I'd better get a good look at him, just in case," I said.  I've always preferred to put a face on my enemies.  

Max nodded.  "Right.  Then go back to Roswell and stay there.  I can handle things here."

"You know Liz will be out here as soon as she gets out of school," I told him.

"No.  She's safer in Roswell."

"Do you think that will matter to her?" I asked, shaking my head.

Max closed his eyes.  "God, I need her," he murmured, more to himself than to me.

"Don't worry.  I'm sure she'll be here soon." 

If there was one thing I was sure of back then, it was that nothing would ever be able to keep Max and Liz apart for very long.

_St. Petersburg__, 2012_

"Max doesn't want my help," Liz said.  "He's never wanted my help."

"I said he _needs_ it," I corrected.  "Believe me, Liz.  I know Maxwell, and he needs this."

"And you think he'll accept it?" Liz asked acidly.  "He can do it himself, Michael, remember?  Max can do everything all by himself."

That spoke volumes.  Max had thought he'd been pushing Liz away so that she'd have a better life, but that hadn't been what she'd seen.  All she'd seen was him pushing her away.  "He can't do this," I said.

Her eyes were hard as she stared out the window.  "What exactly is it you think he needs?" she asked flatly.

I wrapped my hands around the delicate china cup.  "Max has exhausted his appeals.  The last one was denied a month ago.  Unless someone finds something completely new—new evidence, a witness no one interviewed before—he's going to spend the rest of his life in prison."

Liz flinched, closing her eyes briefly.  "What do you think I can do about that?" she asked in a choked voice.

"You're a lawyer," I said with a shrug.  "You could look over the trial transcripts and see if there's something that everyone missed."

"I'm a contracts attorney, Michael," she protested, opening her eyes.  "I've never even been on a criminal defense team."

"Yeah, but you must look at legal stuff all the time," I insisted.  "Contracts—you must go through them looking for all kinds of little tiny things most people would miss.  I need you to do that with Max's case."

"Any attorney could do that," she told me.  

"You're the only one who believes he's innocent."  There.  That was the crux of my argument.  "When you look, you'll be looking for proof that he didn't do this—not some kind of loophole or bad process.  Because you believe he's innocent."  I paused, glancing at her.  "You do believe it, right?"

She turned anguished eyes to me.  "How can you ask me that?"

"Sorry."  I shook my head.  "The thing is, Liz, Max has given up.  All this time, he's been able to tell himself he'll be exonerated—that he'll be free.  But now there's nothing.  He's spent nine and a half years in prison for a crime that he didn't commit.  He's never gotten to have a real life.  College, career, family—all that stuff the rest of us got to have?  He's missed out on all of that.  And now he's convinced he'll never have any of it."  I thought of Sophie doing her homework somewhere in the apartment and I wanted to weep.  Max would never know his daughter unless Liz agreed to help me with this.  That was too much for any man to miss out on.

"Are you going to tell me I owe him this?" Liz demanded, her eyes damp.

"No.  You don't owe him anything.  But he needs this."  I looked down.  If Maxwell would kill me for coming here, he'd bring me back and kill me again for telling her this.  "He's always needed you, Liz.  That's never changed."

She drew in a shaky breath.  "He has a funny way of showing it."

"Do you think he wanted this?" I asked her.  "Come on, Liz.  You know what he felt for you, and I think you know what he'd feel for Sophie."

Liz turned away from me, her eyes overflowing.  "Michael, I can't go back there.  It's too much."

_Los Angeles__, 2002_

_~Liz~_

I had never been so glad to see anyone in my entire life.  

Max and I had been apart for over two months by the time I finally got to L.A.  I'd had to stand on my head and promise to qualify for sainthood in order to convince my parents to let me come.  In the end I think they only agreed because they knew I would go anyway and they wanted to maintain their illusion of control over me.

But as Max and I stood in his hotel room, holding each other so tightly neither of us could breathe, I knew I would have sold my soul to get to him.  

"I love you so much," I whispered.  "I wanted to tell you that so many times.  I love you."

He held me close against him, and I could feel his relief as intensely as my own.  "I know, Liz.  I love you, too."

"I was so worried about you," I murmured.  "I couldn't sleep. . .I kept having dreams about you."

He pushed me back and stroked my cheek.  "Good ones?"

"Sometimes.  But they only made me miss you more."  I could feel tears pooling in my eyes again.

"I dreamed about you, too," he said.  "Every night.  God, I missed you so much."  He pulled me close again, and I closed my eyes tightly against the tears.  "How are you?" he asked hungrily.  He released me and led me over to one of the beds in the room.  "Tell me everything.  How was school—how was graduation?"

I shook my head.  "I don't know.  I couldn't think of anything but you."  I reached for his hand, folding it into both of my own.  "Why is this happening, Max?  Why now?"

"I'm almost positive it was Langley, Liz," he told me.  "He must hate me for what I made him do. . .I can't blame him."

"He knows why you did it," I protested.  "He knows you were only trying to save your son."

"But I ruined the life he'd built for himself."  Max sighed heavily.  "If someone had done that to me. . .if they had taken you away from me, I don't know what I'd do."

"You wouldn't do this," I said firmly.  "Langley's as bad as Nacedo was."

"If he's the one doing this."

I was incredulous.  "Who else could do this?"

"I don't know," Max admitted.  "It could be Khivar—"

"It's Langley, Max," I told him.  "He's doing this to hurt you, and if I ever get my hands on him—"

"No!"  Max almost shouted at me.  "Don't even think about going near Langley or anyone connected with him."

Stung, I looked away.  "Max, I know Michael's already gone to hunt down this doctor.  I only want to help."

"You can help by staying safe," he told me.  "I need you to be safe, Liz.  Michael and I will take care of this."

"I'm not a little kid you have to protect."  I squared my shoulders.  "I want to help you."

"Liz, don't you get it?"  He lifted my hand and pressed it to his heart.  "If I lose you, nothing matters.  I might as well spend my whole life in jail—worse.  Without you, it's just not worth it."

"Don't say that," I whispered.  

"It's true."  He smiled sadly.  "You're everything to me, Liz.  Everything."

I was crying again as he pulled me close.  "Max, you have to get out of this," I said.  "I don't think I can live without you."

"Shh," he murmured soothingly.  "It's okay.  Everything's going to be okay."


End file.
